The Cup Of War

For those who fight, the cup of war
Is neither right nor wrong,
Each brew too pale, too long in store—
Too bitter or too strong.
Back home the nodding donkeys dare
To spout what soldiers think,
But soldiers neither know nor care—
The order comes, you drink!
The squaddies sworn to drain its dregs
Pay no respect to shame,
Their missing arms and missing legs
Will bleed or rot the same.
Their masters bless the stinking cup
And fill it to the brink,
They’ve not the balls to suck it up—
The order comes: you drink!